


all the way to the graveyard

by thesecretdetectivecollection



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Fratt Week, Gen, Prompt: Grave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:33:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27258733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecretdetectivecollection/pseuds/thesecretdetectivecollection
Summary: When Frank gets back to New York, he keeps his head down.He doesn’t look Karen up, doesn’t Google Foggy Nelson—Franklin, he reminds himself. His real name is Franklin—even though they’re etched into his mind.He does type in Matt Murdock’s name a couple of times, but he never presses enter.---In which Frank runs into a dead man in the cemetery.
Relationships: Matt Murdock & Frank Castle
Comments: 4
Kudos: 79
Collections: Fratt Week





	all the way to the graveyard

When he gets back to New York, he keeps his head down. He doesn’t even know why he came back. There’s nothing for him in this city. But there’s nothing for him anywhere else, either. At least here, there are memories. That’s both a curse and a blessing, but Frank accepts it all, even the pain. Especially the pain. As much as he may want to not feel it, not feeling it would be a dishonor to them.

So he feels it all, every single day. It’s not that he doesn’t know anyone in the city—there’s a pudgy, shaggy-haired lawyer bouncing around Hell’s Kitchen trying his damnedest to do the right thing, and their blonde secretary who saw right through him, every time.

He doesn’t look Karen up, doesn’t Google Foggy Nelson—Franklin, he reminds himself. His real name is Franklin—even though they’re etched into his mind.

He does type in Matt Murdock’s name a couple of times, but he never presses enter. Something gets the better of him—his pride, maybe, or some sense of altruism. Maybe even some good old common sense, if it hasn’t all been knocked out of him already.

That was something Maria used to say to him, after he said something ridiculous.

“Oh, hun, I think all the common sense’s been knocked right out of your skull.”

He relents, in the end. It’s a compromise he makes with himself. It’s good sense, he thinks, to know. He isn’t _planning_ on getting pulled back in again, but just in case, and with those _senses_ of his, it would be good to know…

_Devil of Hell’s Kitchen_ , he types. Stupid name, he thinks.

_“I didn’t ask for that name,” Matt had objected, hoarse and low, where he’s chained up to a chimney, a gun taped to his hand and an impossible choice to make. An impossible choice that Frank tried to force him to make._

_“I don’t see you runnin’ from it,” he’d said in return. The Devil was just an inconvenience, then. A roadblock. A guy with the right idea, wrong execution. Coulda done with a little_ more _execution, really._

_So Frank talked to him, tried to get him to understand that they were both on the same side, that maybe the Devil stopped crime, in his half-assed sort of way, and that he, Frank, did the same thing. They could just stay out of each other’s way and be fine._

He’d known that first night that that wasn’t gonna happen.

The third link is from a few months ago. It remarks on the reduced activity from the Devil in the face of falling crime rates. Frank scoffs. Yeah, he thinks, the crime rate _would_ be fuckin’ reduced, after he’d singlehandedly taken out three major players and Red had dealt with Fisk and his cronies.

He thinks back to that night, the… _ninjas_ —he cringes at the mere thought of that word, but what else can he call them?—that killed Red’s girl.

The second link excitedly proclaims that Daredevil is back, in company with known enhanced individuals Luke Cage and Jessica Jones as well as a… billionaire? He’d thought Red had _I work alone_ vibes, but it’s not like they were drinking buddies and he could just ask him.

The first link says that Daredevil is dead. Crushed, it says, under a building.

He huffs. He should be more skeptical by now. If he doesn’t see the body personally, chances are they’re still alive. After all, people think Frank’s dead, too.

He clicks it, waiting to see that the website is some shitty guy with a camera making up conspiracy theories, jumping to conclusions just because the Devil hadn’t shown up and smiled for his camera in a few days.

Only it’s not.

It’s the _Bulletin_.

Under Karen Page’s byline.

He blinks. Okay, so what if Murdock’s laying low a little bit? There was a bit of heat around the Devil, so he retired and came up with a new schtick?

That had to be it, and Murdock’s clever enough to come up with it, too.

So he gives in to his first impulse—this is preparation, he reminds himself. In case he gets dragged back in, he needs to know if the Devil’s still a player. He needs to check out all the variables, if he doesn’t want to get dead.

He types Matt Murdock into Google.

The first thing he sees is an obituary.

It’s the _Bulletin_ again. There’s a note at the bottom saying that Karen Page was a friend of Mr. Murdock’s and requested the obituary assignment, which she wrote with the help of Franklin Nelson, Mr. Murdock’s dear friend.

It takes a little while for it to filter through Frank’s thick skull, because it doesn’t make any sense. If Murdock’s laying low, that’s one thing, and being blind is pretty good coverage—nobody’s accusing the guy who needs a cane to cross the road of being a masked vigilante—but it’s not as simple for him as it is for Frank. If he wants to keep practicing law… a fake ID to buy a beer now and then is one thing, but hacking into the bar website, getting passed under a new name… But he wouldn’t have to, would he? He’d probably pass the bar if he took it again legitimately under a different name.

But it doesn’t make any sense.

Frank’s seen more than his fair share of death. But something about this one feels impossible to believe. It’s Matt Murdock, Daredevil. It feels like if Frank were to go near the edge again, within the borders of his precious Hell’s Kitchen, he’d appear out of nowhere, a baton and a sarcastic quip about how good it was to see Frank again.

But something in Frank suspects it might actually be true. He needs more data points. He considers Karen, but she’s making a living these days out of being nosy as fuck. Nelson would be better, less obtrusive.

So he finds Foggy Nelson’s address, finds out where he’s working these days. That’s another data point. No more Nelson and Murdock, and Nelson’s not carrying on with the work on his own. He’s at a big, fancy firm now, and his profile on the firm’s website shows a round-faced man with neatly trimmed hair, carefully swept to one side and held in place with some sort of product.

It mentions Frank, funnily enough. The blurb about Nelson says he rose to prominence as part of the practice of Nelson and Murdock, which famously prosecuted the case against Wilson Fisk and defended Frank Castle. After his partner and dear friend’s passing, it continues, Nelson took the job offer with HCB and has had a stellar track record since then, racking up success after success.

The air feels different. Even this, he thinks numbly, even _this_ Murdock’s somehow managed to fuck up for him.

It only takes a few keystrokes to find out where his grave is, and Frank knows the answer even before he’d done typing.

_“You Catholic?” Red had asked him, almost hopeful, like this was something he could seize on, that night on the rooftop, scrambling for some sort of strategy when he was chained to a chimney._

_“Once.” he’d said._

_“From New York?”_

_“Once.”_

_“I went to Clinton Church growing up,” he’d offered. A piece of information in exchange for another, he must’ve hoped, but Frank hadn’t obliged._

_“Stop digging, Red.”_

But Matt Murdock never stopped digging, did he? That’s probably what ended up getting him killed.

\---  
  
He’s on a run. He doesn’t run every day, but some days it doesn’t feel like enough to just swing a hammer all day. Some days, his back screams for a rest, and there’s no satisfaction to be found from the pain. Those days, the muscles of his legs mock him, the way they don’t tremble even the slightest bit, the way they don’t so much as twitch.

Those days, he runs after work. It passes the time, and he can almost trick himself into not thinking about them, not thinking about anything.

He’s been going for awhile, letting his body lead the way, not really thinking too much about where he’s going. He still knows this city like the palm of his hand, even after trying his best to forget.

He’s almost unsurprised when he ends up at the cemetery, his feet slowing almost of their own accord.

It’s not like he was planning on visiting Matt Murdock’s grave, but he’s here now, and the man did save his life, once.

He walks through the rows of headstones slowly, carefully examining each one for the familiar words. It’s a shock, therefore, when the first Murdock he finds is not, in fact, Matthew.

_John “Battlin’ Jack” Murdock_. He looks at the date of death—a long time ago, and Murdock’s still— _was_ still—pretty young. His dad—probably his dad, right?—must’ve died when he just was a kid.

Frank slows, and inhales deeply, feeling the wind chill the sweat on his skin. He should’ve brought a jacket, but he’d figured he’d get warm enough anyway, and he wasn’t actually _wrong_. He just hadn’t planned on stopping until he got back to his little room.

He turns and steps forward, to the next grave.

_Matthew Michael Murdock_ , it says. _Faithful servant of God, lover of justice, beloved friend_.

“And what’d that get you, huh?” Frank asks. His voice is rusty with disuse, and the sound of it surprises even him. “God’s faithful servant, yeah? Didn’t help you in the end, did it?”

He waits for a response from the headstone and doesn’t get it.

Frank feels like an idiot, standing here talking to a fucking rock.

He wonders if they recovered the body, wonders if the grave he’s looking at is just an empty casket under cold dirt.

The hair on the back of his neck prickles and he stills. He turns.

There’s another figure in the cemetery, approaching another grave.

He nods at him and the other person ignores him. He—Frank is assuming the person is a he, and assuming has made a fool outta him more than a couple of times, but— _he’s_ wearing a sweatshirt with the hood pulled up and walks with a limp, not quite passing directly in Frank’s path. He stands in front of a grave.

Frank’s been there before. You just want to be left alone, to be with your own thoughts.

He can respect that. So he gives the man his space, nods once more before heading back to the gate of the cemetery.

The hair on the back of his neck prickles again as he walks away.

Something nags at him as he leaves. It was late—he’d worked late, and then run afterwards. That was pretty normal for Frank, who wasn’t afraid of much in this town anymore. He was fully capable of handling himself if it came down to it, but most people left him alone anyway. It was probably his size, and the crooked nose, or maybe it was the look on his face.

So being out at night is normal to Frank. It’s not normal for most other people, though.

That guy had felt familiar somehow—but with the baggy clothes and the limp, he couldn’t tell where from.

He doubles back. Instinct guides him to the building next to the graveyard, and it’s easy enough to get a few floors up the rusty fire escape. Good vantage point. It’d be a good position for a sniper, if the wind was right.

The wind right now would wreak havoc on anyone trying to take a shot from here, though. His mind still thinks that way, even now that the mission’s over. Some part of him will always think this way.

The guy’s still there. He reaches his hands into his pockets, and Frank’s brain is screaming. _Weapon, weapon, he’s reaching for a weapon, get cover_ —

But he pulls out something small and definitely nonlethal. He bends at the waist to lay it on the ground, a single yellow flower.

Frank’s stomach sinks. He was wrong. This isn’t—it’s just a guy mourning the loss of somebody he loves.

He’s just thinking about turning to head back to his building when the wind blows just right, knocks the hood right off of him.

Knocks the air right out of Frank’s lungs.

That floppy brown hair, earnest eyebrows, eyes wide open with an unnaturally steady—or unresponsive—gaze.

Frank almost smiles. It’s just so fucking typical. He _would_ show up at his own cemetery, laying a flower down. And of course it would be the same night that Frank finally went to go see where the Devil was buried, too.

But all evidence suggests that Matt Murdock is dead, so he climbs down the fire escape as quietly as he can, grimacing at every creak of the old metal.

He walks into the cemetery quietly, and when he lets a twig snap under his feet, he sees Murdock jump a little.

“You’re not dead,” Frank announces, feeling stupid about it.

“No,” Red agrees, “neither are you.”

“No,” Frank echoes. “So, you wanna tell me what’s goin’ on? You layin’ low for awhile? Does your blonde friend know? Does Karen?”

Red shakes his head a little, and he’s tilting his head towards Frank, as if trying to hear him better.

“Cut the shit, Red, I know you can hear me.”

Murdock’s jaw clenches, and his hands twitch, wanting to clench into fists.

“Nobody knows. A priest, a nun, that’s it. A few orphans, I guess. And you, now.”

There’s a story there, definitely.

Frank takes advantage of Matt’s blindness to crane his neck a little bit. He looks at the grave Matt put the flower down on.

_Elektra Natchios_. Below her name it says only _she was loved_ , and Frank’s pretty sure he can guess who loved her.

Maybe he should’ve just let the man disappear in peace. Who is Frank, of all people, to call people out for disappearing?

“I was out for awhile,” Red says quietly, “In a coma. They never recovered my body, I never checked into the hospital, they just… assumed. By the time I woke up again, it just felt too late. They were already grieving.”

“So what, you’re just living in a church now?”

“Orphanage,” Red says, smiling wanly, “really came full circle. But I might get upgraded to the church basement, if I’m less of an asshole to the nuns.”

That really is pathetic. Frank almost doesn’t know what to say.

“If you’re more of an asshole, they might want to get rid of you more,” he settles on, in the end.

Maybe he’s done something right, after all the wrongs, because Matt Murdock laughs.

“Aren’t you gonna try to fight me?” Frank asks after awhile.

Red barks a short, harsh laugh. “I walked to the bathroom by myself a week ago. Nuns were giving me fucking sponge baths, Frank. Leg’s fucked, back’s fucked, hip’s fucked, ears’re fucked. So no, Frank, I’m not gonna fight you tonight. Let’s just take a rain check.”

They stand there awhile longer. Frank wonders what the right way is to exit a conversation between two dead men who’ve fought alongside each other, when they’re not too busy trying to fight each other.

“If you’re tired of the church,” Frank hears himself say, “you could come back to my place. It’s tiny, and it’s kind of a shithole, but at least there won’t be any nuns there.”

**Author's Note:**

> In my head, I wrote six perfect fics for fratt week and posted them all on the days they were supposed to be posted on. 
> 
> In my real life, I fell into a bit of a funk and wrote this one fic that I'm still not super happy with because the characters didn't play nicely. I do have a couple of other things planned, so hopefully I can get them out of my head and down onto paper!
> 
> I think this has potential to maybe have a followup, with two dead men living together in NYC and gradually getting closer and closer, but it depends entirely on whether I get around to it.


End file.
